


15th of Cuersaar, pcc 385

by popsicletheduck



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Future Fic, Gen, Graphic Imagery, Implied/Referenced Character Death, keyleth's role as memory keeper, the things history will forget
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsicletheduck/pseuds/popsicletheduck
Summary: There are things they don't tell you about adventuring. These are those things.





	15th of Cuersaar, pcc 385

_15th of Cuersaar, pcc 385_

There are things they don’t tell you about adventuring.

They don’t tell you about the cold nights, curled around a single tiny campfire, walking the line between not being seen and not freezing to death. About the midnight watches, clutching your weapon tight, peering intently into the hostile darkness, nothing to keep you company but your thoughts.

They don’t tell you about the seedy taverns, the reek of cheap ale and sweat and vomit, tired eyed prostitutes and daggers hidden behind too wide smiles. About jobs that you don’t really want to take but the compulsion of an empty coin purse.

They don’t tell you about the long days of travel, aching backs and blistered feet, burning sun and freezing wind and soaking rain, clothes caked with mud and dust and sweat. About ration bags that run empty, the last mouthfuls of water, warm and leather flavored, fighting and walking and walking and fighting, always on alert.

They don’t tell you about the fighting.

They don’t tell you the noise a person makes when their throat is slit, or the scream of one burning, or the fear in one’s eyes as the light fades. They don’t tell you about splintered bones jutting through skin or broken jaws hanging loose or entrails and deep crimson blood spilling out of slit bellies. They don’t tell you about the horrors you will face, creatures of hatred and nightmares, teeth and claws and bloodlust, blades and poison and horrible, murderous magic.

They don’t tell you that often, the worst creatures you face will be people.

They don’t tell you about the smells, the coppery, iron scent of blood so strong you can taste it, the stench of burning hair and the smell of roasting pork of the flesh underneath, bile and urine and sweat and the sweet rotting decay of bodies long dead.

They don’t tell you about the pain.

Sharp and sudden, slow and agonizing, blistering hot, freezing cold, knives in your insides, mental agony that leaves no scars. Shredded skin and torn muscle, shattered bones and burnt flesh, a thousand different ways, all of them different and all of them the same.

It all hurts.

 

They don’t tell you about the heroes.

Or, they do, but not really. They tell you they were brave and strong and courageous, powerful beyond belief, that they fought and died to save the world, that they did it willingly.

They tell you what they did. They never tell you who they were.

They don’t tell you about the anger, the hatred, the rage. They don’t tell you about the mistakes made, about the people hurt, about the nightmares and the long sleepless nights of alcohol to numb the pain.

They don’t tell you about moving past that, learning forgiveness, the missteps made on the path to becoming a better person.

They don’t tell you about the selfishness, the greed, the unrelenting need to have and to keep and to hold on to no matter the cost.

They don’t tell you how that was a great stumbling block, and they certainly don’t tell you how it was perhaps the greatest savior.

They don’t tell you about the lies, the carefully constructed falsehoods, the masks painstakingly crafted to keep in all hidden, keep it all inside, the lengths went to in an effort to pretend that everything was fine when nothing was.

They don’t tell you about when that all comes crashing down and everything is laid bare and blame is thrown like daggers, like bombs, when everything falls apart, and they don’t tell you about the pain of trying to piece it all together again, to fix what anger and carelessness broke.

They don’t tell you about the trickster hidden behind gentle smiles, the playfulness, the pranking, the drinking contests and the cursing and the impropriety and the wonderful blessed laughter that helped heal what magic and potions couldn’t.

They don’t tell you about the other kind of strength, the kind that comes from gentleness, from compassion, from deep love and friendship stronger than any blade, and they don’t tell you that it is that strength, more than the other kind, that truly makes a warrior.

They don’t tell you about the inside jokes and the drunken laughter and the furious tears and the worried shouting, the quiet moments, the sigh of relief, the giddy collapsing into another’s arms.

They don’t tell you about the true cost of being a hero.

 

More than anything else, they don’t tell you about the fear.

It is a constant. It is what drives you. Fear for yourself, for your companions. Fear for a town, a city, a nation. Fear for the world. It writhes in your stomach, sings through your veins, hums in the back of your mind. It chokes you, freezes you, pushes you onward. It does not end, it does not stop, it does not cease.

Heroes don’t move past fear. They learn to live with it.

 

These are the things they don’t tell you, and that is why we exist. To keep the stories that others do not. That is our joy and our responsibility and our burden. May we always be strong enough to bear it.

_-Voice of the Tempest_


End file.
